


What Horrors Wait For Me?

by KChan88



Series: She Was Bound to Love You [15]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Assault, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual!Christine, Death Threats, F/F, Genderbending, Girls Kissing, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, Lesbian Character, Lesbian!Raoul, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rule 63, Sexual Assault Mention, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24297220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: What if Raoul de Chagny was a woman?A series featuring the major events (and a few things in-between) from the Phantom of the Opera, with a gender-bent, lesbian Raoul (and a bisexual Christine). ALW based, with Leroux elements.Interlude VI: Raoul runs into someone from her past, and later, uncovers a family member's secret. The night before Don Juan, Raoul and Christine confess their fears and swear their love. As the curtain rises, Raoul prepares to watch the opera that will change her life.
Relationships: Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Series: She Was Bound to Love You [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627735
Comments: 16
Kudos: 21





	What Horrors Wait For Me?

**Author's Note:**

> You'll see a few mentions here of people wearing red handkerchiefs, which was apparently a signal that queer people used in the 19th century to Let Each Other Know. Pretty cool! 
> 
> Again, warning that this is getting into darker territory. I've tagged, but just saying so again!

Raoul walks slowly home after leaving Christine at the final rehearsal for Don Juan.

Tomorrow is the day.

She wanted to stay, but she and Christine have an agreement to ease their respective worries—Raoul is not to come into the opera until tomorrow night unless she absolutely had to do something with the police, and in turn Christine swore she wouldn’t go anywhere in the opera without Meg.

She left a teary Christine by the front door, settling for grasping her hand briefly as she walked in with Carlotta, who stuck close in an odd, protective sort of way.

A strange friendship if there ever was one, but Raoul’s grateful for the ally.

Meg stayed outside for just a moment after, throwing her arms around Raoul in an unexpected embrace.

 _Thank you for staying with her_ , Meg whispered as Raoul returned the gesture wholeheartedly, her arms going tight around the ballerina’s shoulders. _She needs you. She loves you._

Raoul smiled as she pulled back. _Thank you for being her friend. And mine._

Raoul brought Christine in the carriage but sent it back home in case Philippe or one of her sisters needed it, and she wanted to walk, besides. At the opera, there’s the ghost. At home there’s an ill Philippe and a frazzled Juliette, but there’s also Eloise, who has refused to go home.

She walks the mile or so from the opera house and stops to sit a while in the Tuileries Garden, which is only a five-minute walk from home. Here, she can watch people stroll past her, she can feel the sun on her face, and she isn’t Raoul de Chagny, a member of one of the most prominent families in France. People don’t say _oh Raoul she’s…well, you know, she’d do well in Monmartre_. She isn’t the scandal being haunted by a ghost and exposed at a Masquerade ball. She’s just another young woman in the crowd.

She might feel more at _home_ in Monmartre, where women like her tend to congregate. She makes a note to take Christine there when this is all over, and perhaps they could make some friends. She fiddles with the red handkerchief in the pocket of her dark blue jacket.

It’s hard to think of the future, when the present is so overwhelming, but she must. She must envision happiness, or she won’t make it through this. She searches through her bag for the—three?—volumes she brought along, much to the amusement of Christine. First, Louise Colet, but no, that’s not what she wants. She pulls out a tattered Louise Michel instead, bought at a tiny bookshop and not shared with even her fairly progressive siblings, thinking it might be a touch radical for them. But she’s intrigued by it.

She flips open the volume, reading the first poem there:

_If one day to the cold cemetery I were to go,  
brothers, cast on your sister,  
like a final hope,  
some red carnations in bloom._

She shuts the book immediately. That imagery of that is a touch…too close.

She pulls out a favorite Elizabeth Barrett Browning volume instead, turning to _How Do I Love Thee?_ which is one of her favorites.

_How do I love thee? Let me count the ways._

_I love thee to the depth and breadth and height  
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight  
For the ends of being and ideal grace.  
I love thee to the level of every day's  
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light._

The words soothe her, but she jolts when she hears someone saying her name, a familiar voice she hasn’t heard in nearly a year speaking softly to her.

“Raoul de Chagny? Is that you?”

Raoul clears her throat, snapping her book of poetry shut. “Celine. Hello.”

Celine smiles a touch. “Reading, I see? Some things don’t change.”

Raoul smiles too. They didn’t leave on bad terms, just practical ones. Celine had an offer of marriage that was good enough to take, and Raoul, though upset, understood. There were emotional moments in the first few days after the news, a few times when Raoul said _please reconsider, Celine_ , and she was sad, for a while. She just didn’t feel…broken-hearted? Not like she expected to. Their whole relationship was a little like that. Practical. Two young women of the same class with one thing that connected them—their attraction to their own sex. They learned from each other. What they wanted. What they didn’t.

What they were willing to suffer as far as wider society went.

“I’m very predictable,” Raoul says, feeling a little unsure. “How are you?”

“Pregnant, actually,” Celine answers, running a hand over her dress. “You can’t tell yet, but we’re happy with the news.”

It takes a moment for Raoul to answer, thinking of the chasm between Celine’s normal life and hers, thinking of….well she could die tomorrow, couldn’t she?

“Congratulations.” Raoul gestures at Celine to sit down. “That’s wonderful. I’m glad you’re happy, Celine. Truly.”

Celine sits, clasping Raoul’s hand briefly. “I actually…well you used to read here and I hoped…well Juliette said you weren’t home, when I went by earlier.”

Raoul’s eyes widen. “I…you were looking for me?”

“I was worried about you,” Celine admits. “I saw you, with Christine Daae, a few months ago. You didn’t see me but you…you had _stars_ in your eyes, Raoul. And I was glad for you. But I’ve heard about what’s going on at the opera and I…I just wanted you to know that I was in your corner. When we parted ways it…well it wasn’t because I didn’t care about you.”

Raoul tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Celine wasn’t the love of her life, or even her first love—both of those things belong to Christine—but Celine was a first in other ways. Her first relationship, the first woman she slept with, and it’s comforting, to hear those words.

“Thank you,” Raoul whispers. “I…well I will need all the prayers in the world to get through tomorrow, I expect.”

“I know you can find a way,” Celine says, with great kindness. “And when it’s over, I hope I can meet Christine, and you the baby, whenever he or she arrives. I was there, the night Christine made her premiere. What a voice.”

“I’d love that.” Raoul blinks, and she’s a little teary despite herself. “On both counts. And thank you, I’m sure she’ll be pleased to hear you liked her performance.”

Celine gets up from the bench, pressing a kiss to Raoul’s cheek. “Be careful, Raoul. All right?”

Raoul nods, and then Celine’s gone, casting one smiling glance back.

It was the last thing Raoul expected, but she feels calm for the first time all day, somehow. Relaxing is beyond her, but calm is…something.

She’ll take it.

That calm breaks when she gets home to find Eloise in her bedroom, rifling through the drawer of her bedside table.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” Raoul asks, keeping her voice low so as not to wake Philippe, or Juliette, who is having a lie down, or disturb the children. “Why are you going through my things?” She spies a piece of paper with music notes in her sister’s hand and immediately stalks up, swiping it away. “Give that back.”

Eloise puts a hand on her hip. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Raoul scowls. “I saw you this morning at breakfast.”

“Where have you been?”

“Dropping Christine at the opera and then sitting in the garden for a short while, why does it matter?”

“It matters because you’re always chasing after that girl instead of being here, where you should be. Our brother is hurt, and it’s your fault. Juliette can treat you like a child all she wants and say it isn’t, but it is.”

Raoul tucks the song into her jacket, keeping it safe against her heart. “That girl is engaged to me.” She doesn’t answer the second part of the inquiry because it stings too much, it hurts too much. She wants to say _I love Philippe more than you do_ , but she swallows the words back.

Eloise sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Stop playing, Raoul.”

Raoul hears the ghost’s voice in her head.

_Give up this play fantasy with Christine._

“Eloise…”

“It’s not real!” Eloise shouts. “It’s not real, Raoul. God, I tried to put a stop to this when you were younger and I…” she stops, jumping when she realizes what she’s said.

Heat floods Raoul’s cheeks. “What are you talking about?”

Eloise huffs. “There was a letter from Christine that came for you, not long after we arrived home from the shore. But she wasn’t an appropriate friend when you first met as children, let alone…well I saw the two of you nearly kiss on the beach that second summer, when we were visiting Aunt Isabelle again. I thought it adolescent silliness, but you were growing up and didn’t need to be around someone like that.”

The mention of seeing them on the beach makes Raoul think of the ghost looking through the window of the flat, and it hits her so hard it nearly takes her breath away. A fractured memory appears like a shard of broken glass in her mind, a memory of going door to door that first joyous summer when they were eight and nine, and asking the neighbors for fairy stories. It runs into their adolescent reunion a few years later, as they crashed together in an infectiously gleeful embrace on the beach.

Gustave Daae was already sick, then. Not quite dying, but he would be, by summer’s end.

“There was…” Raoul’s voice breaks. “There was a letter? What did it say?”

“I don’t know,” Eloise says. “I saw it was from her and got rid of it.”

She and Christine haven’t really discussed how or why they fell out of touch, easy as it is to do, especially when they were so young. A lost letter. A wrong address. Anything could have happened. They were so swept up in seeing each other again that it just….didn’t come up.

She remembers the dark few days after Gustave Daae’s death when she was still in Brittany. She remembers Christine running to her door in the pouring rain and collapsing into her arms. Christine was fourteen, and Raoul freshly fifteen. She knew what it was like to lose a parent, but she, at least, had siblings.

Christine had no one.

 _Raoul what am going to do?_ Christine asked. _Raoul must you go?_

She had to, of course, summoned back home by Philippe for the autumn and her schooling. She remembers handing Christine a crumpled piece of paper with both her addresses on it, as Christine didn’t know where she was going, at that point, she only knew her father’s acquaintance at the opera, Madame Giry, was set to arrive soon, and she was staying with friends by the sea until then. Raoul always wondered what happened, why Christine never wrote, but she never…she never thought something like this. They could have exchanged letters, they could have spent time together once Raoul started living permanently in Paris two years ago, she could have been someone for Christine outside the opera house and maybe…

Maybe the ghost wouldn’t have gotten such a hold. Maybe none of this would have _happened_.

“Are you telling me…” Raoul sucks in a breath through her teeth. “That you threw out a letter from my _grieving_ , newly orphaned friend?”

“Raoul…”

“Raoul what!” Raoul shouts. “What are you going to say? Raoul you’re a disappointment. Raoul you’re an embarrassment? Raoul you get to do whatever you want? I don’t, Eloise. I don’t get to do whatever I want. I can’t take the hand of the person I love in the street. I can’t march up the aisle and say _I do_. I can’t do any of that. I can’t do a thousand tiny things that you never even think about. So I’m sorry if try and soothe all of that by wearing clothes you might not like, or taking fencing lessons, or what have you. You…” she shouldn’t say what she’s about to say, but she does, anyway. “You don’t even love Alexandre. But you got to go to the church. You got to have a wedding. You can say this is my spouse to people around you.”

Eloise clenches her jaw, but she looks a little sorry. “Don’t tell me who I love, Raoul.”

“God…” Raoul sinks down into the armchair in the corner, casting a glance at her violin, taken out last night to play a little for Christine. “There’s always someone watching us, isn’t there? You. Him. The whole damn world.”

“I’m not a madman, Raoul.” Eloise sounds hurt. “I’m your sister.”

Raoul narrows her eyes. “You’re my sister who just told me my relationship isn’t real when tomorrow I’m risking everything for it. You’re my sister who stole a letter than was meant for me and then lied about it.”

“I want the best for you.”

Raoul shakes her head. “You want me to stop embarrassing you. Get out, Eloise.” 

“Raoul.”

Raoul puts her head in her hands. “Stop saying my name. Please leave me alone. I…I can’t talk about this right now. And contrary to what you might think, I would have let the opera ghost break my arm twice rather than have anything happen to Philippe.”

Eloise, having the good sense to understand that Raoul’s true anger, while rare, is not to be trifled with, goes. Raoul wants to tell Philippe, but she won’t burden him with that, not now. She wants to tell Juliette, but she…she has to be back at the opera to fetch Christine in two hours and she just…she’ll have to wait until all of this is over, to even think this through. To talk to anyone. Tomorrow is all she can handle. She wants to tell Christine, but it’s too much, and it changes nothing about their current situation. She’ll handle this once Don Juan is over.

Right now, it feels like it won’t ever be.

She lays down on her bed, wondering, with a deep ache in her chest, when she’ll ever be free. 

* * *

If Christine could stay like this forever, she would.

Here, curled up next to Raoul in the dark with a single candle lending light to their circumstances. Safe. Loved.

It feels strange, still, to be here in Raoul’s house, in Raoul’s bed with Raoul’s family members not too far down the hall. The first time she stayed, after the rooftop, they slept in separate rooms, and if they were abiding by the rules of a traditional courtship, she supposes they still would be. But they…well they’re as good as married, in the eyes of Philippe and Juliette, she supposes, even if Eloise is unkind. They haven’t had their little private ceremony, yet, they haven’t sworn vows but then again, they have, haven’t they? Everything they’ve done for one another lately has been a vow. A vow that said _I won’t leave you_. That said _I am here_.

“I sat in the garden to read a while today, while I was waiting for you to finish rehearsal.” Raoul speaks casually, but too much so, and Christine knows there’s something important coming.

Christine smirks a little, despite the anxiety curled up tight in a knot at the bottom of her stomach. “With your three volumes of poetry that you needed for a few hours?”

Raoul smiles, chuckling softly as she adjusts herself against the pillow. “Yes, those volumes. But I saw, well I saw Celine, there.”

“Oh,” Christine says, and she’s not jealous, but there is a twinge in her chest, a twinge of _you are making her life harder_ that she tries not to give credence to. She didn’t ask for her teacher to do what he did, but she still struggles with blaming herself. With knowing that if not for her, Raoul’s life wouldn’t be in danger. But then, Celine chose a different life, a life without Raoul, and while that is of course, her choice, Christine can’t imagine it. She would choose Raoul a thousand times, and then again. “How was that?”

“Rather nice, actually. She was very kind, and said she wished us well, and wanted to spend some time with us, perhaps, when this is over. And to meet her child, when the time comes. She was pregnant.”

“Oh.” Christine smiles too, thinking of a life beyond the terror she feels right now. “That’s lovely. I look forward to it.”

“I was thinking…” Raoul holds onto the words a little, like she’s nervous to speak them. “When this is over, we should go to Monmartre, and explore, a bit. Seeing Celine made me remember my visit there, and the women I met. Women like us. And I think we might find friends, there.”

“I would love that,” Christine answers, a bubble building and building and building in her chest, and she just wants to forget their present and move to this future Raoul is talking about. “When this is over.”

 _When this is over_ , they both keep saying.

What if the end isn’t what they hope for?

She doesn’t want to sing, tomorrow. She has to, but she doesn’t want to. Her teacher wrote these dark, chilling songs about _her_ , these songs of seduction and sex and power. She never asked for any of it.

She was just a young girl missing her father, and she answered a kind voice that spoke to her in the shadowed hallways of the opera house. She talked to him, in the beginning. It wasn’t just the lessons. It was confession. Friendship or…something like. A parent, or so she thought.

Once again, she wonders when it became this, for him. If it was always this, or a glimmer of something kinder, at the start. He did give her this voice, or, well, he made it take flight, anyway. The gift belonged to her before.

He’s never said _I love you, Christine_. He’s never asked her what she wants, he didn’t even ask her if she wanted the lessons, they just… _began_ and he just…takes. Even when he gives he takes, and this opera is all about taking one thing in particular.

_In my mind I've already imagined our bodies entwining, defenseless and silent._

…would he take it, if she didn’t agree? No, he. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t want to think so. But she doesn’t _know_. Surely if he cares about her he wouldn’t cross that boundary. Surely he wants her to reciprocate, that’s what all of this is about, isn’t it?

But it’s always about him, isn’t it? It began with her voice for his music.

She thinks of his voice one night when she was seventeen or so, and the way he said _Christine, why are you crying?_

She hasn’t seen that man in quite some time.

She shivers, shuffling a little closer to Raoul and slipping her foot between Raoul’s ankles beneath the covers. It won’t be her teacher on the stage, it won’t be him touching her, but the notes, the words he wrote, are nearly the same thing. More. His music means everything to him.

“What are you thinking about?” Raoul asks, laying on her side face-to-face with Christine, the dim candlelight making her sandy golden hair glimmer.

“I’m afraid he’s going to take me.”

Christine whispers her fear into the quiet. She hasn’t spoken it quite so bluntly, but now she can’t take it back.

“I’m afraid he’ll take me down into that darkness,” she continues. “I’m afraid I’ll never see you again. That we’ll be parted forever and I…I only hope I can stop that from happening.”

Fear makes her shake as she speaks, because she doesn’t know if she can bear being trapped with him, she’s not sure she could survive it, she’s not sure she might not find a way to end herself, before suffering that fate. That thought’s never really occurred to her before, and she trembles even more as Raoul’s arm goes around her waist, pressing their bodies close together.

“Are you afraid, Raoul?”

“Yes,” Raoul admits, her voice a little husky. “I’m afraid he’ll kill me, and I won’t…” she takes a deep breath. “I won’t be able to keep you safe from him.”

There’s no point in either of them saying these things won’t happen, because they could, and their courage mustn’t be derived from false promises, but from the strength to face what’s in front of them and find a way out together.

“But,” Raoul says, moving back a little so they can look at one another, and she tucks a curl behind Christine’s ear. “I will be there for you tomorrow every step of the way. I swear it, darling. And you…you are so brave and so full of spirit. It’s always there, but I’ve seen it even more, lately. I know…I know he’s so entrenched himself with your father’s memory, but we can untangle it. I know we can and I think…I think you’ve already started, on your own.”

Christine nods, and she lets herself cry, a little, Raoul’s hand running up and down her back.

“I…” Something slithers up Christine’s skin, and she thinks again of Don Juan. She thinks of that lifelike doll with her face. It’s the single thing she hasn’t spoken of to Raoul, and she finds she can’t even now for the strange shame it makes her feel. But it isn’t her fault. It isn’t. “When I sing this opera I feel like….like his hands are on me through those notes and I…I don’t want anyone touching me like that but you. It’s silly, he _hasn’t_ touched me like that really, but I know he wants to and…”

Raoul shakes her head, a note of hot, deep rage in her voice. “It’s not silly. It’s a violation.”

Christine wants Raoul to kiss her, because she doesn’t want to think of her teacher thinking of touching her, but she doesn’t even need to voice it, because Raoul seems to know. Raoul slips her hand against Christine’s cheek, and their lips meet in a sad, tender, aching sort of way, and Christine memorizes it, she imprints it on her mind to take with her tomorrow.

The words from Don Juan bang against her skull.

_In your mind you've already succumbed to me…_

Her intimacy with Raoul is never about succumbing. It’s give and take and love and desire and it’s…it’s about both of them.

Those words are only about her teacher. The phantom. Erik. His wants. His pleasure. His command of her. Her voice. Her body. All of it.

What horrors wait for her, tomorrow night?

This thought makes her kiss Raoul harder, desperate not to think of anything she’s facing, if only for a moment. She wants to erase all the nightmares about her teacher’s hands on her, the nightmares that started as soon as she saw the score for Don Juan. As soon as she saw him betray not only her trust, but the one sacred thing still binding them.

The music.

She wants to replace those nightmares with Raoul, just Raoul. How she smells like coffee and freshly baked pastries all the time, somehow. How soft her lips are. The way she says _I love you Christine_ with unabashed earnestness. Without demand.

Raoul deepens the kiss, and there’s not a claim in it, exactly, but something that says _whatever he does, this is still ours_. Christine wraps her arm around Raoul’s hips. The kiss, and all the love in it, makes her _soar_.

She can do this. She can _do_ this.

Their foreheads rest together when they break apart, and words come tumbling out of Christine’s mouth. “Raoul I…whatever I may be singing tomorrow, whatever may happen, it…”

“Easy there,” Raoul says when Christine can’t quite finish. “I know. I trust you. With every part of me I trust you. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Christine whispers, shutting her eyes and pulling Raoul closer. “Yes. I trust you.” 

* * *

Three hours before Don Juan is set to begin, Raoul stands alone in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom. Christine’s already at the opera, going over final preparations and dressing. Raoul’s due there soon to manage the arrival of the police, and then she’ll take her seat in Box 5.

And she’ll wait.

She’ll watch.

It’s all she can do, and she hates it.

She examines her reflection. Madeline’s done her hair in a low, neat chignon, and for once the pesky strands in the front stay in place. She’s wearing a three-piece black evening suit, but with trousers instead of one of her usual skirts. It’s going to get her noticed, it’s going to cause whispers and mutters and _looks_ , but she won’t have time to pay mind to any of that. She likes her skirts, but if something happens, if she has to go down to the depths of the opera house, across the lake, she needs to be able to move easily.

People can talk about her if they like. She has more immediate problems to think upon.

She runs a hand over the black waistcoat, which rests stark against the freshly pressed white shirt. All of this black is a bit somber for her tastes, but it had to be tailored quickly and black fabric is most common. There’s a touch of gold floral embroidery around the collar of the dinner jacket, and it makes her smile.

She studies her face, realizing she’s terribly pale. Not in the apparently alluring way that other women strive for, but in a sickly, she hasn’t slept sort of way. She steps over to her vanity, picking up the pink-tinted face powder she sparingly uses and dabbing a bit of it on her cheeks. She may be walking into hell, but she won’t let the ghost see her fear.

Because she knows he’ll be watching.

She puts the powder down, her hand hovering over Christine’s lipstick compact. She never wears it herself, and plenty consider the stuff controversial. Too bold. Too _much_. Something about the thought makes her pick it up. She’s watched Christine apply it before, but she’s not certain of the best way.

That’s when there’s a knock on her open door, and Juliette steps inside.

“I saw Madeline and she said you were almost ready,” Juliette says, spying the lipstick in Raoul’s hand. “Lipstick?”

Raoul looks at her, feeling a bit lost. “I…I know how to use powders and such but I…I’m not sure how to put this on on. Help me?”

“Here.” Juliette takes the compact from her, and Raoul’s grateful that she doesn’t lecture her about the trousers. Her sister swipes a bit of the lipstick on her finger, dabbing it gently on Raoul’s lips, which look pink-red in the mirror. “There. That should do. You look lovely. Dare I say a bit dashing.”

Raoul wants to laugh, but she can’t quite manage it. Juliette wraps her arms around Raoul’s waist, her chin resting on Raoul’s shoulder from behind.

Raoul swallows, studying her face and Juliette’s in the mirror. Juliette, who is the only mother she’s ever had. “Juliette, if I…” A tiny, hairline crack runs up the middle of her voice. “If I…”

“Raoul, stop. Don’t finish that sentence. You’re twenty-one years old.”

Raoul takes herself out of Juliette’s grasp, turning around and taking her sister’s hands instead. “That doesn’t matter. I need you to hear me.”

Juliette blinks, tears welling in her eyes as she nods.

“If something happens to me and Christine still makes it out, I beg of you, please take care of her. _Please_ , Juliette.”

“Philippe and I have already agreed to that,” Juliette replies, the only admission that she and Philippe might have discussed something happening to Raoul. “We will. I promise you. But you’re coming out of that opera house tonight.” She pauses, and a few of the tears fall. “Let me go with you.”

Raoul shakes her head. “No. Philippe is already hurt, and you have Francois and the children. I won’t see someone else hurt for a grudge that’s being held against me. That wretch will hurt you, Juliette. I know he will. He won’t care that you have children at home.”

Juliette embraces her then, apparently not caring if she rumples the suit. Raoul holds on tight, and they murmur _I love you_ to each other once, twice, before letting go. Raoul heads to Philippe’s room next, finding him awake, though nearing toward another bout of sleeping.

“You look beautiful,” he says, sounding more a father rather than the usual, teasing older brother. “Be careful, Raoul. Swear to me you won’t be rash. Do what you have to do to get out of there intact.”

Raoul grasps her brother’s hand. “I will, Philippe. I promise.”

“Look on the table by the front door.” Philippe squeezes her hand, running finger across her knuckles like he doesn’t want to release her. “There’s something waiting for you there. Something that might remind you of that night we saw Hannibal. I think I won’t ever forget the look in your eyes. That look of my sister falling in love.”

One, quiet sob bursts past Raoul’s lips, and she swallows it back, ruffling Philippe’s hair before she goes. She bids her siblings goodbye—Eloise finally went home this morning—and gently rejects the use of the carriage, wanting to leave it and their driver Pierre here in case Philippe needs the doctor.

She runs down the stairs, stopping short when she sees a single red rose on the table, and it looks nearly identical to the one she stole from Philippe’s bouquet that very first night she saw Christine again.

For the first time in hours, she really, truly smiles.

Maybe she can do this. Maybe they can make it.

Maybe she can outsmart a ghost at his own game.

Her new sword cane sits near the door, and she picks it up, thinking it feels heavier in her hand than the old one, but it will have to do. She bought it in haste, because she isn’t stepping into the opera house without something to protect herself.

She steps outside into the bustling Parisian evening to find a fiacre outside her door, and a familiar face. Is that…

“Mademoiselle,” the fiacre driver from the graveyard asks. “I…well I wanted to make sure you and your friend were all right, after the other day. I…” he smiles a little at her trousers and the rose in her hand.

Raoul smiles a little wider. “I’m all right monsieur, you’re very kind.”

“I…you look like you’re on your way somewhere, though I’m sure someone like you must have a carriage but I thought…well I could take you, if you like.”

Something strikes Raoul. The kindness of this man strikes her, this stranger she met only once, but who cares, somehow. The corners of her mind have curdled dark and dreary the past few days, anxiety and fear making her distrust people, and the situation with Eloise certainly isn’t helping.

But it’s not all people who are bad, and she won’t let the ghost win by making her think his darkness, his pit of hell, is the only reality in play.

There’s light, too. Sun. The brightness of a spring day.

She hears Christine’s voice in her head.

_I want picnics in the summer with you and just…you._

Raoul squares her shoulders, giving the fiacre driver a grin. “I would be very grateful if you could take me to the opera house, monsieur. I’ve something important waiting for me there.”

The fiacre driver grins too, and nods his head, indicating she should get in.

Raoul pulls the door open and swings up into the seat, catching a few women on the street gaping, open-mouthed, at her clothes.

She gives them a wave.

She hopes it makes the ghost gape, too. She hopes it makes him know that she isn’t ashamed of being a woman, and she isn’t ashamed of loving a woman, either.

And he ought to be ready to meet his match. 

* * *

The fiacre driver agrees to wait.

Raoul tells him it will be hours, but he doesn’t seem to mind, saying something under his breath about how Jules will stay up for him.

It’s then that she sees the red handkerchief peeking out from his pocket.

She smiles, pressing another twenty francs into his pocket before asking his name.

“Marcel,” he answers. “You’d best get going, mademoiselle. Do be careful. Try not to get into any sword fights.”

Meg meets her at the door. She’s already in costume, a strange sort of dress that seems to lace at the front, her golden curls half-covered by a scarf. The costumes for this production—also laid out by the ghost in his instructions—are sure to scandalize many of the people in attendance and Raoul hopes, prays, the opera won’t suffer too much from having to put on this farce. She eagerly sought this patronage to help the arts, and whatever the man’s so-called this genius, he seems bent on destroying a beloved institution.

“You look incredible,” Meg whispers, tugging Raoul by the hand. “The police are here, waiting for you.”

Raoul presses a kiss to Meg’s knuckles. “Tell Christine I’ll be to her dressing room in just a few minutes.”

Meg nods, rushing backstage and leaving Raoul alone in the grand hall, where people are starting to gather.

 _That’s Raoul de Chagny,_ some of them whisper, eyeing her trousers. _I heard she had something to do with the Comte’s broken arm, you know._

Raoul wants to explode, but she doesn’t possess the time. She strides up the center aisle of the theater, finding the police, Andre, and Firmin waiting for her on stage. She hears Madame Giry’s voice somewhere nearby, and Monsieur Reyer is in the orchestra pit looking as though he’s one step away from retching.

“Mademoiselle de Chagny,” Andre says, sounding like he’s relieved to see her. “No trouble so far, but we’re glad you’re’ here.”

“We sent some officers upstairs to guard those doors,” Firmin adds, giving her trousers a once over, but he’s far more polite now that he was the night of the Masquerade. “As you requested.”

“Thank you, messieurs.” Raoul nods, lending a tight smile to them both. “Can you have your officers call out from each of their positions to make sure the doors are secure? It’s essential that they are. I…well I’ve experienced this man attacking outside the opera house, so we can’t let him escape.”

The chief nods, signaling his men, who each shout _secure_ from every door. Raoul goes up to box 5 after that, needing to see how things look from where she’ll be sitting.

“Do you have a clear view of this box?” she calls out to the marksman below, who stands next to the chief.

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“And you recall what I said about when to shoot?”

She remembers _that_ conversation, in the police station. Not one she ever wanted to have.

_If he looks about to escape, or if it appears he’s going to capture Mademoiselle Daae or make toward anyone, shoot. Only if you have to, but shoot to kill. Watch for my signal. If he’s too close to Mademoiselle Daae, do not shoot. Whatever happens as a result. If he comes out on the stage for any reason, make certain she’s on the other side before you even consider aiming for him. If it’s possible, tackle him and take him in. But he’s murdered before and surely won’t hesitate again. Keep your weapons on you, even if you manage to contain him._

She won’t repeat the words here, not when she’s sure the ghost is listening.

The officer nods, but as soon as he does, an amused voice echoes through the opera house.

A chill runs up Raoul’s spine.

_I’m here, the phantom of the opera._

It sounds like it’s coming from above.

_I’m here!_

From below.

_I’m here!_

From behind.

She is _tired_ of this trick.

The officer fires a shot, which ricochets off the stage.

“Monsieur!” Raoul tries not to shout, but it’s a close thing. She doesn’t like having a gun anywhere near Christine, and this is stressful as it is. “You can’t shoot because you heard a voice. Only when the time comes. Only when you see me say so.”

“But mademoiselle…”

“No _buts_!” the ghost, wherever he is, chuckles darkly. “For once, de Chagny is right.” He laughs again, a touch louder. “Don’t you look _dashing_ tonight, mademoiselle.”

Raoul spins around in the box, swearing he’s right behind her, but there’s nothing. No one. She returns to the stage, walking down the hallway with Andre and Firmin.

“Are you all right?” Andre asks, and he must notice her clenching her fists.

“Yes, thank you Monsieur Andre,” Raoul answers. She’s not. It’s a terrible lie, but she doesn’t want to explain to the managers. “Just a bit weary of his magic tricks.”

“Are we doing the right thing?” Firmin asks, and it’s the first time he’s asked for Raoul’s opinion in some time. “Will Miss Daae sing?”

“Yes,” Raoul says, wishing she didn’t have to. “She will. Messieurs if…if for any reason I am out of commission, I need you to manage any shot that’s taken. To make sure it’s only if needed, and not near Christine.”

They both nod, which is only halfway reassuring, but she’ll take what she can get. Andre presses her shoulder and says something about hoping her brother is well, and then, she’s alone outside Christine’s dressing room, the hustle and bustle of the opera house fading to an anxious buzz in her ears. She takes the single red rose out of its wrapping and knocks on the door.

For just a moment she’s transported back to all those months ago, when she stepped inside this room, and saw Christine for the first time in years.

“It’s me, darling,” Raoul says. “May I come in?”

Christine calls out her assent, and Raoul shuts the door snugly behind her as soon as she’s inside. Christine’s at the chair of her vanity, dressed for the opera, _his_ opera, and Raoul wants to change the moment, she wants to make it about them, instead, even if only for a minute. Two. As long as she can.

“Christine Daae,” she says, blinking back tears as she holds out the rose. “Where is your red scarf?”

Christine takes the rose, playing along with the game as she fights back tears herself, though one falls, leaving a drip mark on her stage make-up. “Raoul. It is you.”

Raoul gets down on her knees like she did that first night, placing her hands on the arm of the chair.

“You look gorgeous,” Christine says. She arches one eyebrow. “Is that my lipstick?”

Raoul grins. “Perhaps, Miss Daae.”

Silence wedges itself between them, and Raoul sees Christine’s hands shaking in her lap. She’s tried not to make promises she can’t keep, not when everything is so unpredictable, when he is so unpredictable, but one promise burgeons in her heart, and she knows the truth of it, whatever else may come.

“When your father died…” Raoul takes Christine’s hands, pulling them toward her. “I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t even stay. But now, I promise you, whatever happens, you will not bear it alone.”

Christine’s breath hitches, and Raoul grasps her hands tighter.

“Your father will be out there with you on that stage,” Raoul whispers. “I’ll be with you. But most importantly, you’ll be there. You are brave, Christine Daae. You are resilient. I promise you that. Your music is being used against you, right now, but you are an artist, and whatever happens tonight, that won’t change.”

Christine nods, gesturing Raoul up from the floor and tugging her into an embrace.

“When this began, I blamed myself,” Christine says softly, but with determination. “Sometimes, I still do. But the moment I saw that chandelier fall, the moment I saw that tiny piece of glass cut your cheek and I saw the depths of my teacher’s destruction, I knew…I knew just how deeply I’d been deceived. I’m still sorting through it all, but I…my mind is clear. I only hope it will remain so on that stage. His music it…there’s a power, to it. A strange hypnosis. I felt it in the graveyard, and that was the first time I was able to even try to fight it off, because I wanted to.” They pull apart, and there’s a spark in Christine’s eyes. “Say you love me,” she continues, her voice cut through with tears. “And I’ll take your voice with me, instead.”

“You know I do,” Raoul says, swiping tears from her eyes. “I love you, Christine. To the ends of the earth I love you.”

Christine smiles, and it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. She runs the back of her hand lightly down Raoul’s cheek with a reverence that almost feels like she’s saying goodbye. “I love you, Raoul de Chagny.”

There’s a knock on the door, and Madame Giry puts her head inside, looking first at Christine and then eyeing Raoul’s sword cane like she knows what it is. “Five minutes, my dear. Raoul, you ought to get to your seat.”

 _Raoul_ , and not _Mademoiselle de Chagny_. It’s the least formal the ballet mistress has ever been with her.

Raoul follows Christine toward the wings. Many of the dancers and several others in the company grasp Christine’s hand as she passes, several offering Raoul a smile. This is their home, and it’s under threat.

They’re in this together.

“You’ll do wonderfully, Christine,” Carlotta whispers when they reach the path where Raoul can go no further. “I’ll keep an eye out,” she tells Raoul, giving her a wink.

Meg appears then, and with one final squeeze of Christine’s hand, Raoul has to go.

She goes up to her box, hearing the chatter of the audience, who don’t know what’s awaiting them, though some look to the police officers standing by the doors.

She settles into her chair, resting the sword cane against the front of the box. The floor creaks ever so slightly just behind her, and for a moment, just a moment, she swears she hears a voice whispering in her ear. A smooth, hypnotic voice casting a deep, dark spell.

“Insolent girl,” the voice purrs, with a twisted, bewildering _fondness_. For the game they’re playing. For whatever he has planned, tonight.

And then…no, she’s not imagining anything because there’s a _hand_ coming around her neck before she can even react, the fingers resting lightly against her skin in threat. No one can see them in the dimness of the theater before the stagehands brighten the gas lights, and he’ll certainly make sure no one hears him.

Raoul reaches for the sword cane, but she only grasps the edge with her fingertips before the ghost’s hand tightens around her throat, the cane falling to the floor when he nudges it over in one swift movement. She can get air, but barely.

Dammit.

Dammit.

 _Dammit_.

“Uh-uh, no interrupting the opera,” the ghost says, softly, sharply, each terrible word unfurling like a requiem. _Her_ requiem. “It’s about to start.”

She doesn’t move a muscle. She doesn’t breathe. If he was going to kill her now he would have already. Surely.

No, he’s waiting for something.

She wished she knew what, but she needs him to let go. She needs to survive to the next moment.

She will not die quietly in this box. _No_. She’s come too far. If her stillness doesn’t buy her release, she’ll lean her chair back into his chest, no matter that it will surely cause a scene and send him running to god knows where. But this is so fragile, so precarious, that she doesn’t want to do that unless she has to.

They have to trap _him_.

The opera ghost speaks closely in her ear once more, his ice-cold fingers loosening their grip and pressing instead against the place where her pulse beats. It flutters like mad, and there’s a faint, pleased chuckle against her skin.

“Poor young maiden. No going back now.”

The hand slides away, and after a moment it’s as if there was no one there at all. Raoul reaches for the sword cane, holding it in one hand and refusing to let go. She whips around in her seat, but he’s gone. No sound. Not a trace. Nothing.

It’s then she realizes that there’s a piece of paper at her feet.

One, final note.

She shakes the loose paper open with one shaking hand, willing herself steady. 

_Time to pay the bill for your stolen sweets, Mademoiselle de Chagny._

_Do enjoy Don Juan Triumphant. I hope you find it instructive._

_O.G._

Raoul doesn’t jump. She doesn’t flinch.

She won’t let him scare her.

Or at least, she won’t let him see.

She crumples up the note, tossing it to the floor of the box.

The curtain rises.

The lights brighten.

A hush falls across the audience.

The new chandelier shines. It shakes a little, too, or maybe that’s just Raoul’s memory.

And then, the phantom’s opera begins.

**Author's Note:**

> Don Juan is next! Just as a note, there will be several chapters after the events of the final lair, so we've a good bit to go, still!


End file.
